


Do You Know the Way to Venezuela?

by SueG5123



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27993507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SueG5123/pseuds/SueG5123
Summary: “Charlie.”  Her voice tightened and dropped in pitch.  Leona Lansing was not amused.  “Listen to what I’m telling you, old man.  Be patient.  I’ve got a room full of suits who know how to leverage things so that – so that we can turn Lucas Pruit back to churning out personal soft drinks.”Season 3 AU.
Relationships: Will McAvoy/MacKenzie McHale
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Do You Know the Way to Venezuela?

**Author's Note:**

> _A loose take off of the third season. And since I was changing a little bit of canon, I thought I’d go ahead and change a lot._

“Leona—”

“Charlie.”

“Come on, Leona—”

_“Charlie.”_ Her voice tightened and dropped in pitch. Leona Lansing was not amused. “Listen to what I’m telling you, old man. Be patient. I’ve got a room full of suits who know how to leverage things so that – so that we can turn Lucas Pruit back to churning out personal soft drinks.”

That made Charlie chuckle involuntarily.

“What you need to do for me—really, what you need to do for all of us—is just keep things together down there. Just hang on. Help is on its way, but these things take time. Reese is schmoozing the minority backers and the FCC still hasn’t given the official blessing to the transfer. There’s a chance—”

“Not much of one.”

She sighed, disturbed by his pessimism but not wanting to argue the point. “A good chance, and I’m speaking as a woman with some experience in these matters. Just hang in there, Charlie.”

“Leona, federal officers raided my newsroom—my star anchor lost his pissing contest with a federal prosecutor—and Lucas wants something he calls user-generated content.” Unlike Leona, Charlie’s voice went up in timbre as he became excited. “Actually, you probably wouldn’t even believe the shit he is insisting that we cover—on the news. If you’ve got a lifeline to throw us, do it soon, because we’re drowning here.”

“I understand.” Pause. “Look, I’ve got to go now. But remember what I said. Stay in touch, Charlie.”

“I brought the magazines you wanted. Also, the Gibbon book—abridged was all I could find.”

From the other side of the glass, Will made a wry smile. “Well, let’s hope Rebecca can work out a release for me before I can finish _The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,_ even in an abridged edition. Let’s also hope it doesn’t turn out to be a metaphor for my situation.”

Mac couldn’t think of a reply, anything that made sense of such trivialities while he was in open-ended coercive custody. Her head dropped.

“Mac.” He waited for her eyes to meet his.

“MacKenzie, we’re going to be okay.”

She made a tight nod. There was so much to say and this was nowhere near the forum to say it.

“Although it does seem that we’re overdue for a happily-ever-after by now,” he allowed. “Everything good at work? Is Sloan still alternating at the desk with Jane?”

She huffed an ironic laugh. “We took Jane off _News Night_ last week. She made for too much drama at the desk and in the bullpen and everywhere else. Charlie sent her to rehab to dry out.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised.” After a moment, Will decided to temper his honesty with at least the appearance of concern. “But I wish her well.” Then, changing the subject, “How’s Charlie?”

“Overworked, I think. Pruit seems to be treating him as he would treat an office boy.”

“Charlie doesn’t have to take that shit. Perhaps he should tell Pruit to go fuck himself and retire, and leave Pruit holding the bag.”

“You know Charlie could never do that, Will—the retire part, I mean. I think he would gladly tell Pruit to go fuck himself except for trying to maintain a bit of a buffer between Mount Olympus and the newsroom. He’s trying to hold the line on the big things even as the small things are crumbling around us.”

“What small things?”

“Civility. Basic professional competence.” She sighed, regretting having brought it up. “ACN Digital, for one thing. Technology is one thing, but this seems like dynamite in the hands of children.”

Nodding sympathetically, he leaned back in his chair. “Okay. What else?”

“There’s this puerile ad campaign that valorizes mob journalism. It’s patronizing and demeaning and—well, neither Don nor I liked it but we found ourselves at loggerheads with Charlie over it.” She sighed. “I’ve put three Twitter monitors on set, because Pruit insists we can’t report news without instantly knowing the reactions it provokes. We seem to be mining controversy. Not merely controversial news topics, but topics that seem particularly selected to exploit polarization. Pruit’s been hellbent on a story about a campus date rape web site and Don has been resisting, but Charlie—"

“Charlie will back you up.”

“No. He won’t. And he hasn’t been. And I don’t know why.” She dropped her eyes, unwilling to meet Will’s with this indictment of their friend and mentor.

“He must have a reason,” Will sputtered.

“If he does, he isn’t sharing it with me.” 

Eyes bright with forced courage, she met his gaze and tried to act brighter, happier. There was no point in worrying Will while he was still stuck in the slammer of the Manhattan Detention Complex.

“How are you holding up? I spoke to Rebecca this morning and she promised to call that man—”

“Lasenthal.”

“Yes, Lasenthal—and remind him that it’s been over fifty days now—”

“Fifty-one.”

“—Fifty-one, and this isn’t supposed to be a punishment for you—”

“It’s supposed to be coercive.”

“It’s _emotional waterboarding_ , Will, and it needs to stop. I’d do anything to stop it.”

He edged forward in his chair. _“Don’t._ Don’t do what I can see you’re thinking about doing. Let Rebecca handle this, Mac. Things will run their course.”

“It’s just that—that—well, I need you, Will. I need you at home with me. And, work—well, works needs you, too, because things are just too strange there anymore. I think Charlie could use your support. I know I could.”

“Everything’s going to be okay. Believe that.”

“Forty million Twitter followers,” Charlie repeated. “You heard me when I said that, right? She has _forty million_ followers.”

“And I would ask, does Lady Gaga bring expertise to the table on marriage equality?” Mac shot back, with no small hint of disingenuousness.

“What kind of expertise would she—” Charlie began before regrouping. “Nevermind. Just block out the time.”

“I don’t have the time in tonight’s show. I produce the news, not act as a traffic cop for Twitter.”

“Mac, Lady Gaga can bring 40 million people to a civil rights debate—gay couples who just want to move the fuck on with their lives—”

Mac turned to Sloan, who had hung wordless against the far wall throughout this conversation, to offer subtitles for following the discussion. “It’s _trending_. On Twitter, or Facebook, or one of those social platforms. So, Pruit picked up a phone and said, do this—”

“Put it in the rundown, Mac,” Charlie warned.

“I just said, I don’t have room, Charlie. Tell me what you think I should cut—the Supreme Court striking down portions of the Voting Rights Act—rockets fired at Israel—Edward Snowden on his way to Cuba—”

Sloan crept to the doorway. “That’s okay, Mac. It was just an idea.”

“I’m sorry, Sloan. I didn’t have room for it anyway.”

“What was it?” Charlie asked, his interest piqued by Sloan’s capitulation. “Did it have anything to do with ACNgage?”

Mac turned back to him, plainly surprised by his seeming clairvoyance. “How did you know?”

“Pruit wants it.”

Sloan frowned. “How would he even know what I was pitching? I mean, I just asked Mac for time only minutes before you came in.”

“That guy—what’s his name—”

“Bree Dorrit.”

“—Yes, thank you, Bree—he has a relationship with Pruit. He told him you were putting him on the air and Pruit liked it. Sees it as a promo for the network.”

“That is precisely what it is.” Mac underscored, the sarcasm in her voice conveying her disapproval. 

“Make sure it’s on the rundown. You’ll have to cut something else or make some trims to time as necessary.” Charlie crossed his arms and dropped his chin. “We’re clear on this, right?”

Mac stared at him for several seconds before yielding. “Yeah. We’re clear.”

As Charlie and Sloan exited Mac’s office, Gary Cooper waited a respectful moment before entering.

“Mac?”

“Yes?” She looked up from staring down at the surface of her desk, hands clenched on either side of her head.

“There was a call for you—and I saw you had people in your office so I thought I should try to handle it for you—but—” Faltering, he extended a note. “She said you could reach her at this number, and that she needed to see you right away, but maybe—”

_Lily Hart._

“Did she say where?”

“No, and I didn’t ask. I don’t think I’m cleared for this conversation, Mac.” He nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot. “And if this is about what I think it’s about, I don’t think you should call her back, either.” 

Mac reached for the telephone on her desk, keying in the digits from the paper. “This is about freeing Will.”

“You don’t know that.” In an astonishing gesture of defiance, Gary leaned over the desk and depressed the switchhook before the call could connect. “I mean, Neal’s on the lam and Will’s—”

His movement startled and frustrated her, but she wanted to appear reasonable. It would be best if she could soothe his concern. “There’s nothing to worry about, Gary. Really. We sent the source’s information to another media outlet, so there’s no conflict with our broadcasting or not broadcasting anything. Will is holding the line against the DOJ, so she surely knows that we aren’t going to reveal her identity—”

“Then, why is she calling you? What’s her angle? This doesn’t smell right, Mac.” He made a face. “And, by the way, thanks for confirming that I’m now a party to espionage, too.”

“Gary. You aren’t—”

“Am I gonna have to go to Venezuela? Because my Spanish isn’t as good as my German and you’ve probably heard—” 

“Seriously,” Mac reproved, reaching again for the phone. “In any event, the technical name for being a party to espionage is _co-conspirator_.” 

She meant it as gallows humor, but he recognized the bald-faced truth of the word.

“Shit.” Gary rolled his eyes. “And my passport's expired.”

As a concession to both traffic and the busy sidewalk, the taxi deposited MacKenzie and Gary Cooper half a block from the main entrance of an unremarkable stone-and-glass-fronted building at One St. Andrews Plaza. Only an understated blue placard over the door announced the building’s function:  
United States Attorney’s Office, Southern District of New York.

Lily Hart had been cagey in her conversation, as usual, when Mac reached her by phone, but she was most specific about the address for the meeting. Mac felt vindicated: obviously, Lily intended to identify herself to authorities as the whistle-blower, thus ending the need for Will’s incarceration.

“You’re gonna recognize this person—I mean, you’ve met her before, right?” Gary scanned the crowd of pedestrians on the sidewalk. “We won’t have to signal by carrying carnations or flashing lights, will we?”

Mac already felt lighter, confident that Will’s release was surely imminent. “We’re still a few minutes early. She said 12:45.”

“So, why did she want to see you all of a sudden? What’s this all about?”

Mac took a breath. “I think—she’s ready to be the face of the story. And if she does—”

“Will’s a free man.”

She nodded. “If she comes forward as the source, the Department of Justice no longer has the grounds to hold Will. I can’t think of any other reason to select this particular place to meet.” Suddenly, Mac noticed a familiar face in the oncoming crowd. “You stay here. This should only take a few minutes.”

She intercepted Lily on the sidewalk and passersby flowed around the two of them.

“As you can see, I came. I hope this means that you’ve decided to go on the record.”

“So your husband can come home to you.”

Taken aback by the bitterness in the other woman’s voice, Mac struggled to find the right words. “Not just for that reason—but, yes, I want Will home. He’s done what he’s done to protect you and the—"

“I trusted you to tell the truth.”

“Truth—at least, in my business—requires validation and context. Your information is important, very important, but we have to source it, find the context. What you brought to us couldn’t be independently verified, so we had to—”

“You went to the government.”

“Technically speaking, the government came to us. The FBI ransacked our newsroom. Perhaps you heard?”

Lily shook her head emphatically. “You’ve got no skin in this game.”

Trying to tamp down the other woman’s sense of injury, Mac said, “Look. We couldn’t take on your allegations because we couldn’t verify them—” she looked down “—and because of some concerns about possible litigation held by the corporation that is purchasing my network. But we passed your information along to a good journalist, someone with integrity and years of experience who—”

“You passed it along.” A mocking echo.

“Yes, we did the right thing, Lily. You know, one of my staff had to flee to another country as a result of your so-called game, and my husband is in jail for refusing to compromise a source. So, I think I have plenty of skin in this game, as you say.”

The other woman rolled her eyes.

“You told me on the phone that this situation needed to reach its conclusion. The only way for that to happen is for you to go through those doors and identify yourself.”

“I think there’s another way.”

Without fanfare, the other woman was suddenly holding a pistol

Mac never registered the danger to herself as she leaned forward, imploringly. “Oh, no. Don’t do this. This isn’t worth—”

She moved her hands toward the other woman.

When Lily fired, the report echoed through the canyon of buildings.

Gary, barely a dozen feet away, had politely averted his eyes when Mac and the other woman seemed to recognize each other and began to converse. He didn’t want to intrude, and, hey, _Venezuela._

But when Mac’s voice escalated in tone, ending in the phrase “don’t do this,” he whipped around.

He saw Lily lift a handgun, obviously heavy, and struggle to level the thing at Mac, who, meanwhile, had brought both hands up defensively. Mac managed to angle the direction of the weapon’s muzzle, so that when it discharged, it was no longer pointed precisely where Lily Hart had aimed it.

Still…

Mac’s torso shuddered from the blow of a projectile, and Gary began to move forward, to what avail he couldn’t yet formulate, but he arrived in time to catch and ease MacKenzie to the pavement.

Passers-by on the sidewalk shrank from the sound and the motion, in that order. A uniformed security officer peered out the glass doors of the building. Gary was aware of someone yelling.

Meanwhile, Lily—unperturbed—moved the weapon in a slow arc back to her face and fired a second time.

Gary closed his eyes for a long second, deliberately ignoring everything more than two feet away, then reached for Mac. For the first ten seconds or so, MacKenzie had a neat red hole in the upper left of her blouse—a hole that blossomed quickly into sodden scarlet.

Suddenly, there was blood, a lot of blood, and—having no combat experience himself, only Uganda and its tragic end—he tried to envision his next actions.

“Help.” He focused on one of the bystanders and bellowed. “Call for help. 9-11. The police. _Now_.” He tried to make the last word as commanding as he could.

Pressing the handkerchief from his pocket against the wound proved no more effective than merely willing the blood to stop, and he felt growing panic. Providentially, another bystander rifled her department store bag and passed him a new shirt, store tags still attached. Another woman knelt near him, coaching him, explaining that she had been a nurse.

Under the yellow light of a single street lamp, Will walked to liberty just shy of two months incarceration. 

He looked around – he thought there would be someone, he thought Mac, at the minimum, would be–

“Hey.”

The unlikeliest of candidates, Reese Lansing nonetheless materialized from the shadows, his hand outstretched.

Will clamped the other man’s hand, but still looked around.

“Thanks for coming, Reese—but I thought—I mean, I just thought that—”

Reese exhaled heavily. “I came because—well, because Charlie had a little cardiac thing tonight—”

_What?_

“—and he’s at the hospital. The doctor is still checking him out but I knew he would really want to be here himself—”

Will took that in. “You’re preparing me for something.” He looked around. “Where’s Mac?”

That was the biggest absence.

Reese sighed again. “Can we just—okay, why don’t we—” and he gestured to a car door newly opened and attended by a liveried chauffeur. “We should probably talk some place a little less public—"

“Yeah. We should.” Something deadened in Will’s voice. But he followed Reese into the back of the limousine. “First, tell me why Mac isn’t here.”

Before answering, Reese knocked twice on the plexiglass separating the driver from the passengers and the limo pulled onto the road.

“There’s a long answer and a short answer—”

“I’ll take either.”

“Yeah—okay—well, we’re going to see her now. It’s just that—well, there was something else that happened today—”

“Quit fucking with me, Reese.”

“—She’s okay, I mean, _basically_ —I don’t want you to think that—”

“What the fuck is going on?”

At that, Reese exhaled heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes closed.

“That source of yours, you know the one I’m talking about—well, Mac met with her today at her request—and the source had a weapon—and I want to say again that she’s okay, you shouldn’t worry, Mac’s going to be okay—anyway, the aim was off—"

“What?” He struggled to comprehend the words Reese was saying and the glacial pace at which the information was being revealed to him.

“—But they want to keep her overnight and—”

“Are you saying Mac’s been shot?”

Reese swallowed and looked very uncomfortable. After a long pause, he affirmed, “Yeah. That’s what I’m saying.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Reese smiled weakly. “But they’re both at NY Pres. Charlie and Mac.” 

Will’s jaw torqued. His wife with a bullet wound and his best friend and mentor with a coronary—but the _convenience_ of them both being at the same hospital.

Awareness returned gradually. The unfamiliar hums and chirps of electronic devices. Blurred light and indistinct shapes. But most persistent was the pressure on her hand.

When MacKenzie was finally able to focus, she found the source of the pressure. Will, eyes clouded with concern, vised her hand. At her return to consciousness, his tension eased and he pulled back a few inches.

“Hi.”

“You’re—here.” Her words were soft and slurred.

“Yeah. They released me a couple of hours ago.”

“Sorry—sorry I missed—”

“No, no, no,” he shushed. “I’m here now.” Long pause as he tried to think what to say next. While he thought, he brushed an errant strand of hair away from her face, allowing the backs of his fingers to trace the contour of her face. “Hey. I love you. And I’m sorry for this.” Meaning, the hospital room, the shooting, what happened to Charlie that they hadn’t even gotten to yet, but above all else, his inability to protect her.

“So good to see you, Billy.”

“Good to see you, too, Mac.” Softly, because it felt more reverential, and that was how he felt just now. He tried to muster a lighter tone. “So. What kind of day has it been?” 

That made her smile. Right before her face fell.

“I’m so sorry, Will. Lily wanted to talk. I thought I might be able to persuade her—talk some sense—we met at the Justice Building—Gary went with me.”

“I’m glad he did.”

“He’s okay?”

Will nodded.

“She was so angry—she wouldn’t listen—”

“She was disturbed, Mac.”

“She thought we deliberately—”

Will cut to the chase. “She was a whack job, Mac. Plain and simple. And if she hadn’t already put a bullet in her brain, I’d be happy to do it for her for what she tried to do to you.”

Mac nodded and closed her eyes, acknowledging his right to feel that way without adding her own rancor. When she reopened her eyes, she shifted slightly in the hospital bed, provoking a tug at the surgical staples in her shoulder and making her wince.

“Let me get someone—"

“No, I’m fine. Just a little pull—not really painful.” With her free hand, she reached for his. “Don’t worry. It’s okay.”

“You need to rest. It’s been a helluva shock.” For both of us. “Why don’t you take a short nap and I’ll check back in an hour or two?”

She smiled weakly. “All right. But don’t leave without seeing me again.”

When she slipped back to the healing peace of sleep, Will withdrew. He nearly toppled into a man standing outside the room.

“Mr. McAvoy? Special Agent Mark Griffin, Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He flashed his bi-fold identification. “If your wife is awake, I’d like to speak to her about what happened today.”

Will eyed him warily. “I don’t want her disturbed right now.”

“Of course. I can return tomorrow morning if you think—”

“Suit yourself, but I’ll make that decision when I see how she’s doing tomorrow.”

Griffin fidgeted for a moment. “I understand your concern, Mr. McAvoy. I am also aware of the circumstances that may predispose you to refusing me an interview with your wife. Fifty-two days in custody at the Manhattan Detention Complex. That was… most regrettable.”

Will said nothing.

“You should know, however, that you and Ms. McHale can decline to be interviewed—there will be no negative consequences to you, although we sincerely hope you will cooperate. Certainly, the two of you have been personally and very adversely affected by the actions of the deceased suspect, and you have the Bureau’s sympathy—”

Will’s sudden snort of derision left no doubt of the value of the FBI’s sympathy at this moment.

“Yes. Well.” Realizing he may have overplayed his hand with the whole commiseration thing, Griffin paused and inspected the shine on his shoes, before finally raising his eyes back to Will’s. “Anyway, here’s my card. I’d appreciate a call, Mr. McAvoy. We’ve talked to the other journalist, Mr. Cooper, but we’d like to hear what your wife remembers, as well.” Another pause. “I hope she rests comfortably tonight.”

Will glared at the agent as he retreated out of sight.

As Will made his way down the hospital corridor, he was surprised to see Reese Lansing sitting in a waiting room chair. Incongruously, he was eating a prepared deli salad with an ineffectual plastic fork.

“She’ll be okay,” Reese said in a blatant attempt at bonhomie, his words somewhat mangled by the salad greens in his mouth.

Will dropped into a chair opposite the Lansing scion and massaged his temple.

Reese nudged a butcher-wrapped bundle on the magazine-strewn table. “Here. Got you a sandwich.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I know you think you’re not hungry, but you need to eat something anyway. Jeeze, I sound like someone’s mother, don’t I?” As Will unwrapped the bundle, without enthusiasm, Reese added, “Anyway, this is bound to be better than anything you’ve had for the last seven weeks. Pastrami on pumpernickel from Sal’s over on 43rd.”

Unconvinced and still un-hungry, Will nonetheless inspected the sandwich.

“You guys were estranged for, what—a coupla years? All that time she was over in the Mideast?”

“We’re together now. She’s my wife now.”

“Yeah, I heard about that.” Reese chewed for several long seconds before resuming. “Funny. I didn’t get an invitation. And the third generation Rockette likes it when I take her places.”

“It was—well, it was rushed—not exactly planned—”

Reese shrugged. “So, do I send a roaster or a cappuccino machine?”

Finally managing a small smile at the gentle ribbing, Will began to pick at his sandwich.

“McHale?” A slight man in green hospital scrubs held a clipboard and looked anxiously between Reese and Will, the only two occupants of the waiting room.

Will rose. “I’m Will McAv—her husband.”

“Hey, I’ve seen you on TV—the news show on ACN, right? Nice to meet you in person.” The doctor grinned, before his sense of professional decorum reasserted itself. 

“As you know, your wife suffered a gunshot wound to the upper thorax, just below the left shoulder—missed the sub-clavian artery by half an inch. Bullet passed cleanly through tissue, no bone strike. Lucky. Traumatic and painful, but the good news is that the long-term damage should be nil, and there shouldn’t be any impact to—” His voice trailed off and, pausing, he looked uncertainly over at Reese. “Well, anything else that could be impacted. Someone will touch base with you later about release and follow-on care.

“Release—?”

“Likely tomorrow or the day after. She’ll be more comfortable recovering in her own home.”

It suddenly struck Will that he had no idea what their apartment looked like now, to what degree it was still ‘a work in progress,’ remodeling-wise. No matter. If the wiring was still exposed and the plumbing sub-par, he would just rent them a suite at The Plaza for a month.

The doctor’s sunny smile returned. “Real nice to have met you, Mr. McAvoy, sorry about the circumstances. I don’t get to watch very often but my wife’s a regular viewer and I know she’d want me to tell you to give ‘em hell.” He backed away, took a few steps, and then half turned. “And, oh, by the way—congratulations.”

“Sure. Thank you.” Will mustered a smile and nod of acknowledgement but looked puzzled as he turned back to Reese.

“Someone must’ve told him I’ve been in custody for the last couple of months.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He congratulated me. On being released, I guess.”

Reese smirked. “There’s a chance you may have misread the doctor.” He waited a long moment before pushing back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “You know, if I was a betting man, I’d say you’re about to have full immersion in the whole family experience.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“The usual course of events: love, marriage, _and—and—”_

“ _And_ , huh?”

Then, the meaning landed. Wait. What? MacKenzie— _pregnant_?

Will was stunned by the speculation.

“I was just with her and she didn’t say anything—”

“Maybe she doesn’t know yet, either,” Reese returned, clearly enjoying Will’s befuddlement. “But I’d be real suspicious of a doctor congratulating me after just having examined my wife. Doctors can usually be relied upon to discover these sorts of things before the rest of us.”

“Why didn’t she tell me?”

“Well, let’s see, possibly because you’ve been in jail and she thought you had enough to worry you already? Not to mention that things have a way of slipping your mind _when you get shot in the afternoon_. She may have forgotten to pick up the dry-cleaning, too.”

Jesus. Information overload.

Will dropped back into his chair just as Reese stood and brushed crumbs from his shirtfront.

“You haven’t wondered why I’m here tonight? Why I was the one who collected you from the Detention Center?”

Good point.

“Okay. Why are you here?”

“I’m here because you’re ACN’s moral center. And because my mother is three floors above us, gently convincing Charlie Skinner to take a long vacation.”

_Charlie._

“How is he?” Will felt ashamed for not having asked earlier. 

“It looks as though he’ll pull through but it’s serious and it may be a long time before he’s back.” Pause. “ACN will need a fighter in his office. Someone fearless. Principled. Committed. Someone willing to look down the barrel of a gun.”

Simply hearing Reese refer to Mac in such glowing, heroic words put a watermelon in Will’s throat. She was that. All of that.

“I don’t get to break much news, Will—that’s always been your job. But I can tell you this part right now—the FCC just halted Pruit’s application to acquire ACN. The transition’s on hold, and I think I may have finally convinced my mother that a wholly family-held media conglomerate is passé. So, it looks as though you're going to have Lansings to boss you around for the foreseeable future."

“Three—two—one—roll in,” Herb’s disembodied voice came over Will’s earpiece.

“Good evening. This is _News Night_. Tonight, Drew McFadden takes us to Qumar, a sultanate that has been in the news recently as a result of reported U.S. involvement. Later, Maggie Jordan will provide an update on Edward Snowden and the sensitive NSA data he is alleged to have leaked to the media, and Alton Gray will profile Jeff Bezos, the billionaire behind online merchandising behemoth Amazon who has just entered the media world with his purchase of _The Washington Post._ But first, let’s check in with Sloan Sabbith for Market Roundup…”

Hearing the soft swoosh of air indicating the door to Control had been opened, Kendra turned to see the newcomer, then rushed to embrace him. By the time other faces followed the commotion, Neal Sampat was grinning sheepishly from the doorway, locked in Kendra’s arms.

As the others in Control recognized him in the dim light, slow claps erupted.

On the monitor, Will frowned ineffectually at the ruckus through his IFB and Jim squelched his micpac while shaking his fist in solidarity.

“As we say in Venezuela, _que hay, mi pana_?”

“You can just stop that right now,” Kendra teasingly reproved Neal. “We want to hear every detail from you, without requiring translations.”

Easing from behind him came MacKenzie McHale, her left arm still immobilized against her body but wearing a warm smile of acknowledgement. The clapping grew louder.

“And you, girl—” Kendra moved from hugging Neal to delicately squeezing Mac’s unbandaged side. “So good to see you got walking papers from the doctor. Finally.”

“Blame Will, not the doctor. He blanched each time I got up for a drink of water, so it’s been tough to convince him to let me fly the coop.”

“He looks like he knows you’re here right now,” Jim said, indicating Will’s anxious mien on the bank of monitors. He passed her a headset. “We’re going into a break soon, so if you want to give him any direction—”

“And we’re out,” Herb called out, the embodiment of good timing. “Thirty seconds back.”

Unable to lift the headset over her head with only one hand, Mac settled for holding it to her ear.

“Your hair’s a little mashed up in back, Billy. Shall I come in and fix it for you?”

Reflexively, his hand patted the back of his head. He stared into the iris of the camera, not seeing her but knowing that she was there and that she could see him.

“Glad you could join us.”

“Neal’s here, too. He got in this afternoon.”

“Good. Old home week.”

“Back in ten,” Herb interrupted.

“I guess I’ll see you after the show.”

“Back in five—four—three—”

“I’d better.”

The last syllable was no sooner out of his mouth than the red light went on in the studio and the camera dollied in on Will at the anchor desk.


End file.
